


Chapter Sixty-Two: Behold The Machine

by CavalierConvoy



Series: MTMTE Series One: Shoot Straight with a Crooked Gun [63]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One, Transformers Generation Two
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Attempted Seduction, Corruption, Drinking & Talking, Espionage, Gen, Infiltration, Other, Political Alliances, Subterfuge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/pseuds/CavalierConvoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five stellar cycles ago, Trailbreaker stumbles across a government plot to oust Elita Prime and restructure the Elite Guard. And when things couldn't get any worse, shadows of his past come back to haunt him. Good thing he has friends like Mirage on his side...right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter Sixty-Two: Behold The Machine

Its pistons push it toward its goals  
Whatever they may be  
Its gauges and its valves  
Remain a mystery to me--  
This great mechanical mass!  
Its purpose still uncertain  
But pay no heed  
To those behind the curtain!  
—["Behold the Machine"](https://youtu.be/s28VGuPpsfc) by Vernian Process, from _Behold The Machine_  
  


Meeting Chamber #74, currently assigned to Ethics Committee Delegation  
Senate Citadel  
Five Stels Ago

Trailbreaker fretted, wringing his hands. He had not left the safety of behind the desk since Elita Prime had caught him. All he had done was attempt to catch a quick nap before the afternoon sessions, and now he found himself embroiled in a political coup?

Bear witness. That was the wording Prime had used. Bear witness? To what? 

_Oh, Primus. Not the Functionists. Not the Clampdown. No, that couldn't happen again. Couldn't. Not again._

_I don't want to go into hiding again!_

And the more he thought about it, the more he worried, chewing his bottom lip as to keep himself focused. They have lists now. We've already been outed. If they start going after us again, they already have a checklist! _Oh, Primus, not again, not again, not again —_

The door hissed open, and footsteps — one mid-frame, the other a light-frame or speedster, by the weight of their falls — entered the room.

"Prime," one greeted, femme by the voice, but a hard edge.

"Chromia, Firestar, thank you for answering my summons so quickly." Elita approached the desk, took something from it — likely that folder Xaaron had left — and returned to the centre of the room. "I need an entourage to deliver these blueprints to one of our colonies. These are highly sensitive plans, which is why we cannot risk data transfer."

_Chromia and Firestar? They were Elita's personal guards. Why — ?_

"Elita," the second voice, another femme, this one higher pitched and passionate, protested; she had come to the same conclusion Trailbreaker had.

"I need those I trust to execute this delivery, Firestar," Elita stressed. "Do not worry; I still have allies within these walls."

 _Little good we can do!_ He forced down his panic, shutting his optics, wishing he was anywhere but here. Not anywhere. Just...not here. Macadams. Yeah. That's where I want to be right now.

"Meet the contact in the Harbour within the half-megacycle," Elita continued. "Time is of the essence; direct any questions of your departure to me." A pause. "Dismissed."

Firestar made a noise of protest, but Chromia picked up the slack. "At once, Prime."

Footfalls faded, and the door hissed closed once more. Trailbreaker exhaled before leaning forward, holding his head. Picked the wrong sol to sneak a nap.

_Primus, what am I supposed to do now?_

"In a half-megacycle," Elita informed, her voice still even, collected, "I will be arrested. The Senate may not call it that — they will cite for my protection, most likely. They will weed out my allies, scatter them amongst the colonies. Much of the war-related efforts will be redirected to the Kimia facility, including Research and Development as well as the Ethics Committee."

Kimia? This...was new. Had Xaaron known about this?

"I ask you to bear witness for a while longer," she continued. "Someone needs to survive with the truth."

 _Survive?_ This was sounding less like the restructured government they had been promised ten stels ago and more like...

...more like...

_...before._

_Primus, no. Please._

Trailbreaker worried his lip, already raw from previous bites. Kimia facility. Maybe it was for the better. Safer there. Away from...

 _...why do we have to continue to be afraid of our government?_

He was about to ask a question when heavy marching echoed outside the hallway, in time, making it difficult to estimate how many approached. The door slid open once more, and with mechs entering the room, he ascertained a better sense of number: likely three abreast, either side of two, maybe three others. He covered his mouth with one hand, sliding lower under the desk. _Primus, it's happening again! It's happening again! It's happening —_

"Elita One," the lead mech addressed — Trailbreaker could not place the voice, young and vibrant, but full of duty and fervour. "We have been ordered to put you in protective custody — "

 _No! I can't hear this, I can't hear this, I can't — not again!_ History was repeating itself. 

" — as the current crisis with Maximo and his Legion — "

_No, this isn't right!_

From Trailbreaker's peripheral, something shimmered, just enough within his attention as to not spook him, for him to recognise the phenomena. Mirage, uncloaking, pressed a finger to his lips, scooting closer to his fellow outlier. Together, they huddled under the desk, listening to the exchange.

" — those on the Stratocracy need to locate the apostate, post haste, to bring our only hope back to Iacon."

"I find it hard to believe," Elita maintained her cool collectedness through the exchange, "that you, of all mechs, would doubt the Matrix's wisdom in its motives."

"You must understand," the other speaker stressed, "that those on the Senate are granting you a chance to save face in this fiasco. If not, they will charge you with accessory to theft of holy relics — "

"And where does that put the Senate as a whole?" she interrupted. "Emirate Xaaron — "

" — had been stripped of his title, effective immediately. He, as well as the rest of the Ethics Committee, will be sent to the Kimia facility."

A pause, calculated. "Why," Elita questioned, "does the Senate fear Rodimus? Why would the Matrix choose to hunt for him?"

"What you speak of is heresy."

"What I speak of," she countered, "is that we are unable to govern for ourselves in times of crises. That this is a trial, one that you cannot admit failure."

Another pause, this one with the weight of judgement behind it. "This is your final chance, Elita One. Your service to our cause is admirable, worthy of a Prime. But this transgression will not sit with the Senate any longer."

The spans of dead air were the worst; Trailbreaker, hands clamped over his mouth, met Mirage's reassuring gaze. _Not gonna happen,_ Mirage mouthed.

"I will request council, then," Elita broke the awful silence. "I reserve the right to name said council for my defence."

"Escort her to the chambers," the other mech ordered. "We will continue this discussion there."

Mirage held up his hand, fingers splayed, as the footsteps receded out of the room. He closed his fist with one finger extended — _one click —_ before engaging his cloak once more. A full two cycles passed before Mirage returned, taking Trailbreaker's hands away from his face. 

"We need to move," the speedster whispered. "I'm not certain how long I can cloak both of us — "

Trailbreaker shook his head. "If they review the closed-circuit, they'll know I never came out. Give me a bit."

Mirage nodded, resuming his cloaking. The larger mech leaned forward, head in his hands, grasping at his discombobulated thoughts for some semblance of order. _This wasn't supposed to happen!_

Wait. Elita did not have the Matrix. And judging from the other mech's words, she never had it. But she said....

 _Can't stay here forever,_ he chided himself. Well, the secret was out, confirmed: the Ethics Committee was being shipped away, likely due to Xaaron's dismissal from the Senate's Advisory board. 

Which in itself was troubling. Since when was the Senate interested in religion?

And who was the apostate? Granted, the Covenant had some weight in some of the ethics rulings — hence why Xaaron was chair of the committee for which he served, along with Animus and Trailbreaker — but to strip their oldest living emirate of his title?

_Okay, 'Breaker, enough's enough. Gotta face the world now. CCTV likely picked me up settling in; gotta make it look like I just slept through the ruckus._

Times like this he wished he carried a flask. He would have to resort to the hangover shuffle. Hitching his arm onto the desk, he rose to his feet, making a production of getting his footing, before groaning, rubbing his face and glancing around as though the lighting was too bright. With a stumble, he approached the door, hit the open glyph, and leaned against it, regaining his balance. Or at least he hoped that's what it looked like; he felt the brush of Mirage sneaking past him. Trailbreaker counted to five and followed suit, leaving the room.

Invisible fingers brushed his palm. _[ meet up | you-me | outside | cycles: three ]_

Stopping to lean against the wall, Trailbreaker brought a fist to his mouth and nodded, hiccoughing, before rubbing his optics. A dark green and silver mech with Elite Guard stripes along side her Autobrand halted before him; he granted her a lopsided grin and a wave. 

His reputation was well-known; the Eee-Gee harrumphed, with equal parts elegance and contempt, and continued on her rounds. _Yep, do not suspect the minor public official with the well-known engex addiction to have accidentally stumbled upon and gotten inadvertently involved in a political coup._

He approached the security checkpoint; the mech on duty looked down at his screen, back up to the specialist, and waved him through without so much of a word.

 _Nope, no one pay attention to me._

Once outside, he sighed, shielding his optics from the afternoon suns. _Now, just have to play dumb until they ship my aft to Kimia —_

Mirage, in full view, grabbed his arm, greeting him with a spark-melting smile. "Teebs! I'm so glad I ran into you!" he exclaimed, a stark contrast to the last half-megacycle. "Are you busy? I hope we can catch up — it's been, what, six, seven stels since we left Earth? I'll buy you a drink!"

 _Quick, go into flatter mode!_ Trailbreaker pulled off the shock of the encounter — that was little reach in itself — then plastered a wide grin. "Yeah, that sounds great! Macadam's?"

"Oh, please," Mirage laid on the airs as he waved away the comment. "Why settle for their watered down engex? Have you been to Sapphire Dreams, in the Merchant District? It's been a favourite of my house for generations. Better music, better engex, better place for two old friends to catch up. Unless you have a previous engagement...?" That little tremor of fear as though to have his invitation declined — _you're good, Mirage. Too good._

"Naw, I could use a drink — was just gonna head back to my flat otherwise."

"Oh, that could still happen!" Mirage laughed, looping his arm around Trailbreaker's. "Oh, the sols of exploration — I miss those horribly! My house was scandalised when I joined Optimus's crew! But what they didn't understand? The pomp and circumstance couldn't hold a hand torch to the friends and brothers I gained on the Ark. We founded our own house."

"That's beautiful," and dangerous. _Scale back there, 'Raj. You're laying it on a little thick._

They took the commuter rail to the Merchant district. Trailbreaker would normally walk or drive himself, but he was playing the inebriate, and more so than he actually was. And with the events of the past sol, he needed to get to completely fendered to process all the information. For a quarter-megacycle, the two talked nothings, about daily life, the music scene, current events not pertaining to politics or the Conflict. By the time they arrived at their destination, The primary star, Shaula Aleph had touched the horizon, refracting its light across the atmosphere in violets and reds; Shaula Beth was a bright pinpoint in west. 

Sapphire Dream was a stark contrast to Trailbreaker's usual, working class haunts. Drinks were mid to high double-digits in shanix, not local creds, and, by a single scan of those in the establishment, no one he recognised, only three other mid-frames amongst speedsters and flyers, none of them heavyweights, and none with utilitarian colours. Even with his dark grey paint job, he stuck out.

True to the club's — no way this was a bar or pub — name, the lighting was a soft blue, casting just enough light as to not offset the blacklight piping on the courtesy tables, barely large enough for two, transforming the patrons' drinks set atop the surfaces into vibrant illumination. Deep bass electronica music pulsed, obscuring conversations. There was mingling but no dancing; most were huddled over their drinks.

"What's your poison?" Mirage questioned, breaking his friend's brooding. The speedster's delivery was less professional, hinting illicit intentions. 

_Laying it on a little too thick, 'Raj!_ "Stout and chaser," Trailbreaker stuttered, nervousness genuine. "Stormin' the Garrison and Primus' Chosen if they have it."

Mirage pointed to the back table, one with a placard reading "reserved". "Meet me over there; I'll put in our order."

For as long as they've known one another, Trailbreaker knew better than to question the sign; the "reserved" might as well say "Mirage's". The speedster was old money, money that managed to keep compounding interest during the war. Before, he had been reluctant to join either side, but took up the red soon after the Clampdown, offering his abilities as a scout but staying out of the violence as much as possible. It did not mean he could not fight; he was light on his feet and quick with a punch, utilising his inherent cloak to keep the upper hand, but, like Trailbreaker, preferred to keep violence only as a last resort.

Thinking about the speedster did little to help the larger mech from dwelling on the fact that he was completely out of place. _I should just go back to my flat, get fendered, pass out, and chalk up what I heard to a drunken hallucination —_

Mirage slipped into the booth next to him, sliding a small tray in front of his guest. The stout, delivered in a large, clear stein, was thick enough to absorb the light from the table and tinged with red at the edge, sat balanced with an empty shot glass and a small carafe, liquid within glowing violet. Mirage had a large brandy sniffer, half-filled, florescent orange with whorls of red. The blue and white speedster took a sip, savouring the sample, before settling back, turning towards his comrade till knees touched. Leaning forward, he took the initiative and poured the contents of the carafe into the shot glass. 

"Plans are in motion," Mirage whispered, intimate as a proposition. The music made an excellent buffer; around them, other mechs were in conversation, their voices indistinct from the bass. "I'm sorry you had to get involved."

"I didn't have much of a choice," Trailbreaker admitted, lifting the whisky and, with a toast of gratitude, tilted back. The burn was pleasant, slow, warming; this was a reserve, meant to be savoured. "Wrong place, wrong time."

"Depends on the party in question," Mirage countered. "There are senators on our side, but they have limited influence on the floor. The Elite Guard has a new commander, and there's talk that Jazz has gone rogue, teaming up with Springer."

"And they're loyal to Elita," Trailbreaker muttered, helping himself to the rest of the whisky. "I may need some more of this."

Mirage chuckled — hard telling if it was part of the act — and gestured the bartender. "So you've heard the rumours?"

"The guy who arrested Elita," Trailbreaker stumbled over his words, his voice low; Mirage scooted closer, an arm snaking behind the larger Autobot's back. "He said she didn't have the Matrix."

"That would be the new Eee-Gee commander," Mirage explained, taking another sip. At this range, Trailbreaker could smell the heady spice of promethium from the Vosian brandy. "And he's right; she doesn't. Found out from Jazz what happened when the Senate reorganised the Eee-Gee. Have you noticed our friends who were under Rodimus's command aren't on planet anymore? Jazz worked to get those he could with his unit, or under Springer's command with the Wreckers. Thing is, they're going further, because while they fear Rodimus's charisma, they fear his loyalty to Optimus more."

"But Optimus — "

Mirage halted the protest with a finger to Trailbreaker's lips. "Shh." A drawn out, seductive syllable, as a waitstaff flitted to the table to deliver another whisky carafe. Too well-timed to be coincidental, but the larger mech was reading mixed signals from Mirage, unable to sort the intention from the ruse.

Thing was, he couldn't back out even if he wanted to. Loyalties to his former squadron — his teammates, his friends! — were too strong to ignore, burning the urge to walk away from the table, figuratively and literally.

Uncertainty dissolved into focused determination. The choice was made. "All right," Trailbreaker hissed, bringing his face closer to Mirage's, until a finger's-width of space separated their lips, "what's the plan?"

 **NEXT CHAPTER:** Legal Force


End file.
